University  of  California  •  Berkeley 


"Wit  h  **4ta./»&  Z/tvain   and 


V7  ^Diversion  for  the  fbnglis/i  Glass 


Perhaps  it  were  well  for  us,  a  part  of  the  time  at  least,  to 
turn  our  eyes  toward  California  as  a  source  of  literary  material. 
If  California  is  ever  to  come  into  her  own  as  a  land  of  the  poet, 
the  musician,  the  artist,  it  must  be  by  herself  becoming  the  heart 
of  the  literary  and  artistic  life  of  her  people.  It  is  important 
for  us  to  know  and  to  feel  the  atmosphere  of  our  own  home  land. 
There  is  something  in  this  for  California  Teachers  to  ponder. 


EDWARD     HYATT 

Superintendent  Public  Instruction 


7+73 

A  DIVERSION  FOR  THE  ENGLISH  CLASS. 


lf  in  fflaltforma 

Fellow  teachers,  you  will  perhaps  be  surprised  at  my  hardihood  in  sug- 
gesting anything  in  a  field  you  know  so  much  better  than  I;  nevertheless,  I 
venture  to  urge  a  point  well  known  to  many  of  you,  and  yet  well  worth 
repeating  once  in  awhile.  It  is  this : 

Make  of  your  Literature  a  PLEASANT  thing  to  your  children.  Show 
them  how  to  get  joy  out  of  it.  Leave  them  hungry  for  more  of  it.  Make  of 
it  Experiences  in  their  lives.  Make  it  live  for  them  as  do  the  incidents  of 
their  daily  lives.  So  shall  Literature  go  with  them  and  broaden  them  and 
comfort  them  long  after  you  have  passed  away. 

But  if  you  make  of  it  a  dead  thing  of  phrases  and  formalism;  if  you  try  to 
fill  young  children  with  the  dry  bones  and  skeletons  that  were  of  interest  when 
your  professor  of  philology  gave  them  to  you  at  college;  if  you  fail  to  interpret 
the  simple  human  interests  of  Literature  to  your  boys  and  girls  and  fail  to  show 
them  how  to  interpret  for  themselves — then  have  you  lost  your  opportunity  and 
sent  them  forth  with  husks,  to  be  thrown  away  gladly  and  forgotten. 

I  append  to  this,  as  a  possible  diversion  now  and  then  in  the  regular  class 
work,  two  scraps  of  American  Humor,  with  an  attempt  at  their  local  setting. 
This,  of  course,  will  not  be  of  use  to  all  classes,  nor  to  all  teachers.  I  have  a 
notion,  however,  that  some  teachers  will  take  these  two  classic  bits  and  take 
pains  really  to  interpret  them  to  their  children,  express  the  lights  and  shades 
of  their  whimsical,  delicious  humor  by  voice  and  manner  and  intonation  and 
facial  expression— until  the  children  can  actually  see  them  and  can  interpret  them 
back  again.  And  I  have  a  notion  that  a  teacher  who  in  some  such  way  simply 
teaches  young  people  to  get  emotions  out  of  Literature,  to  feel  it,  to  enjoy  it,  to 
want  more  of  it,  is  doing  the  highest  and  most  useful  kind  of  work. 
Very  cordially  yours, 

EDWARD  HYATT. 


A  CALAVERAS  EVENING. 

A  little  while  ago  I  was  called  to  the  teachers'  institute  in  Calaveras  County. 
To  reach  the  county  seat  from  Sacramento,  it  was  necessary  to  go  by  rail  to  Lodi, 
in  San  Joaquin  County ;  thence  toward  the  Sierras  thirty  miles  by  a  branch  rail- 
road to  Valley  Springs;  and  thence  into  the  foothills  on  a  galloping  four-horse 
stage  a  dozen  miles  farther  to  a  queer  old  town  built  on  the  sides  of  a  gulch 
leading  toward  the  Calaveras  River.  San  Andreas  is  pronounced  by  everybody 
as  though  it  were  spelled  San  Andrays.  Its  streets  are  narrow  and  crooked, 
running  at  curious  angles  in  different  directions.  Its  business  houses  of  the  older 
kind  are  built  of  common  country  rock,  faced  with  mastic,  or  of  brick,  and  have 
heavy  iron  doors  and  iron  window  shutters.  Its  sidewalks  are  frequently  inter- 
rupted by  steps  at  different  angles,  and  sometimes  one  has  to  turn  and  go  down 
toward  the  street  in  order  to  continue  along  the  sidewalk.  The  town  dates  from 
the  early  gold  mining  period,  when  every  stream  in  this  foothill  region  was  lined 
with  miners,  washing  gold  from  the  gravels  with  their  pans,  their  sluices,  their 
long  toms.  Instead  of  a  few  hundred  inhabitants,  there  were  then  four  or  five 
thousand  people  surging  up  and  down  the  winding  streets  of  San  Andreas. 

The  people  still  show  the  free  spirit  and  kindly,  unsuspicious  hospitality  of  the 
early  Argonauts.  As  I  went  along  the  streets,  a  perfect  stranger,  this  one  and 
that  one  passed  the  time  of  day  in  friendly  style.  Every  one  was  willing  and 
anxious  to  give  information  or  perform  any  other  little  service  that  was  asked. 
At  every  opportunity  invitations  would  come  to  look  over  business  places,  to  visit 
homes,  to  take  a  meal,  and  other  proffers  of  the  like — I  even  had  to  decline  several 
pressing  proffers  of  a  "drink." 

The  chief  hotel  was  a  solid,  well  built  structure  of  brick  that  was  put  up  in 
1858.  It  stood  on  a  street  corner,  where  one  could  almost  touch  the  buildings 
across  the  narrow  street  to  right  and  left.  Rearward  the  sidewalk  sloped  so 
steeply  down  that  'twas  hard  to  keep  one's  footing.  Inside  was  a  large  lounging 
room,  with  a  big  stove,  heated  by  chunks  of  oak  wood,  for  its  center  of  attraction. 
Here  the  townspeople  and  the  passing  travelers  gathered  of  evenings  to  toast 
their  feet  before  the  fire  and  to  engage  in  social  chat. 

At  such  times  many  a  striking  and  interesting  thing  came  forth — anecdote, 
incident,  tale,  of  the  present  time  or  of  the  long  ago.  It  would  be  a  treasure 
house  for  a  story  writer  to  enter. 

One  evening  mention  was  made  of  the  word  Calaveras;  and  one  and  another 
explained  that  it  meant  bones  or  skulls,  and  came  from  the  ancient  remains  that 
were  common  in  the  county.    At  this,  some  one  quoted  retrospectively: 
"And  the  way  they  heaved  those  fossils  in  their  anger  was  a  sin 
Till  the  skull  of  an  old  mammoth  caved  the  head  of  Thompson  in." 

A  general  chuckle  went  round  and  others  tried  to  recall  more  of  the  poem. 
At  last  the  hotel  man  jumped  up,  went  into  the  barroom,  and  returned  with  a 
dusty  copy  of  Bret  Harte,  open  at  The  Society  upon  the  Stanislaus.  Dr.  Richard 

(2) 


Boone  was  in  the  circle.  He  took  the  book  and  read  the  poem  aloud,  with  spirit 
and  humorous  feeling,  while  pipes  stopped  smoking  and  smiles  went  round  and 
every  one  craned  forward  in  the  genial  glow. 

THE  SOCIETY  UPON  THE  STANISLAUS. 

By  BRET  HARTE. 

I  reside  at  Table   Mountain,  and  my  name  is  Truthful  James; 
I   am  not  up  to  small  deceit,  or  any  sinful  games; 
And  I'll  tell  in  simple  language  what  I  know  about  the  row 
That  broke   up  our  society  upon  the   Stanislow. 

But  first  I  would  remark,  that  it  is  not  a  proper  plan 
For  any  scientific  gent   to   whale   his   fellow-man, 
And,  if  any  member  don't  agree  with  his  peculiar  whim, 
To  lay  for  that  same  member  for  to   "put  a  head"  on  him. 

Now  nothing  could  be  finer,  or  more  beautiful  to  see, 
Than  the  first  six  months'  proceedings  of  that  same  society, 
Till  Brown  of  Calaveras  brought  a  lot  of  fossil  bones 
That  he  found  within  a  tunnel,  near  the  tenement  of  Jones. 

Then  Brown  he  read  a  paper,  and  he  reconstructed  there, 
From  those  same  bones,  an  animal  that  was  extremely  rare; 
And  Jones  then  asked  the  Chair  for  a  suspension  of  the  rules, 
Till  he  could  prove  that  those  same  bones  was  one  of  his  lost  mules. 

Then  Brown  he  smiled  a  bitter  smile,  and  said  he  was  at  fault. 
It  seemed  he  had  been  trespassing  on  Jones's  family  vault; 
He  was  a  most  sarcastic  man,  this  quiet  Mr.    Brown, 
And   on   several  occasions  he   had  cleaned  out  the  town. 

Now  I  hold  it  is  not  decent  for  a  scientific  gent 
To  say  another  is  an  ass — at  least,  to  all  intent; 
Nor  should  the   individual  who  happens  to   be   meant 
Reply  by  heaving  rocks  at  him  to  any  great  extent. 

Then  Abner  Dean,  of  Angels',   raised  a  point  of  order — when 
A  chunk  of  old  red  sandstone  took  him  in  the  abdomen, 
And  he  smiled  a  kind  of  sickly  smile,  and  curled  up  on  the  floor, 
And  the   subsequent  proceedings  interested  him  no   more. 

t 

For,  in  less  time  than  I  write  it,  every  member  did  engage 
In  a  warfare  with  the  remnants  of  a  paleozoic  age; 
And  the  way  they  heaved  those  fossils  in  their  anger  was  a  sin, 
Till  the  skull  of  an  old  mammoth  caved  the  head  of  Thompson  in. 

And  this  is  all  I  have  to  say  of  these  improper  games, 
For  I  live  at  Table  Mountain,  and  my  name  is  Truthful  James; 
And   I've  told,  in  simple  language,  what  I  know  about  the  row 
That  broke  up  our  society  upon  the  Stanislow. 

(3) 


After  laugh  and  comment  had  died  down  a  bit,  Mr.  Floyd,  the  postmaster, 
spoke  up  and  told  some  interestingly  pertinent  details.  Said  he : 

"Angels  Camp,  as  you  know,  is  the  next  town  toward  the  mountains,  twelve 
miles  above  here,  and  it  was  near  there  that  the  incident  took  place  upon  which 
Bret  Harte  founded  that  story. 

"It  was  really  a  practical  joke.  There  was  a  storekeeper  at  Angels  named 
John  Scribner,  who  loved  a  joke  better  than  he  loved  his  dinner.  Also  at 
Murphys,  another  old  mining  camp,  about  eight  miles  farther  up  in  the  moun- 
tains, lived  Dr.  Jones,  famed  through  all  the  southern  mines  for  his  medical  skill, 
and  as  an  amateur  scientist,  whose  special  hobby  was  the  collection  of  fossil 
remains.  Not  far  away  a  deep,  prehistoric  river  channel  was  being  mined  for 
gold.  The  gravels  of  these  old  channels  afford  the  richest  diggings.  They  are  of 
a  geologic  age  in  which  no  human  remains  have  ever  been  found,  though  sought 
for  by  scientists  the  world  over.  When  the  workmen  began  to  find  bits  of  petrified 
wood  in  this  prehistoric  channel  a  brilliant  idea  flashed  into  Scribner's  mind.  He 
would  perpetrate  a  monumental  joke  on  his  friend,  Dr.  Jones. 

"So  he  sent  to  an  old  Indian  burying  ground  some  distance  away  to  get 
a  skull.  This  cranium  he  carefully  filled  with  the  gravel  of  the  ancient  channel ; 
and  then  buried  it  where  the  hardy  miners  would  soon  dig  it  out  from  the  mine 
and  send  it  up  to  the  outer  air. 

"Well,  Scribner's  joke  was  a  howling  success — in  fact,  too  much  of  a  success. 
The  specimen  was  accepted  by  Dr.  Jones  in  good  faith,  and  Professor  Whitney, 
the  state  geologist,  was  notified.  After  examining  the  skull  and  the  surroundings 
he  declared  it  to  be  a  discovery  of  the  greatest  interest  and  the  certain  proof  that 
geologists  had  so  long  sought  in  vain — that  man  lived  on  the  earth  in  that  ancient 
era.  But  some  there  were  who  doubted.  The  newspapers  took  it  up,  first  locally, 
then  in  a  wider  and  more  bitter  warfare.  Scientists  and  would-be  scientists 
from  the  Pacific  to  the  Atlantic  fought  over  the  question  till  the  'Calaveras  skull' 
was  as  well  known  as  the  Calaveras  Big  Trees. 

"And  this  is  the  incident  with  its  bitter  controversy  which  attracted  Bret 
Harte's  attention  and  started  his  brain  to  produce  'The  Society  upon  the  Stanis- 
laus.' Observe  that  the  controversy  is  satirized  no  less  than  the  original  incident," 

concluded  the  postmaster. 

********* 

After  a  little  interval  and  a  side  remark  or  two,  the  hotel  clerk  began: 

"I  suppose  you've  all  heard  of  the  Jumping  Frog  of  Calaveras.  But,  perhaps, 
you  don't  know  that  the  incident  which  Mark  Twain  has  made  so  famous  took 
place  right  here,  even  in  this  very  hotel. 

"It's  a  fact.  Of  course  it  was  before  my  time,  but  my  father  knows  all  about 
it.  He  is  an  old  man  now,  more  than  ninety  years  of  age.  You  ought  to  have 
him  here  to  tell  stories  of  this  country  in  the  past.  I  tell  you,  he  could  keep 
you  going." 

"Yes,"  said  the  postmaster,  "I  know  the  old  man  well,  and  I've  often  heard 
him  tell  that  the  frog  story  did  take  place  right  in  that  barroom  and  just  about 
as  Mark  Twain  tells  it." 

Then  it  was  in  order  to  get  out  an  old  paper  printed  in  1865  and  read  again, 
as  follows: 

(4) 


THE  NOTORIOUS  JUMPING  FROG  OF  CALAVERAS  COUNTY. 

By  SAMUEL  Iv.  CLEMENS  (MARK  TWAIN). 

In  compliance  with  the  request  of  a  friend  of  mine,  who  wrote  me  from  the 
East,  I  called  on  good-natured,  garrulous  old  Simon  Wheeler,  and  inquired  after 
my  friend's  friend,  Leonidas  W.  Smiley,  as  requested  to  do,  and  I  hereunto 
append  the  result.  I  have  a  lurking  suspicion  that  Leonidas  W.  Smiley  is  a  myth ; 
that  my  friend  never  knew  such  a  personage;  and  that  he  only  conjectured  that 
if  I  asked  old  Wheeler  about  him  it  would  remind  him  of  his  infamous  Jim  Smiley, 
and  he  would  go  to  work  and  bore  me  to  death  with  some  exasperating  reminis- 
cence of  him  as  long  and  as  tedious  as  it  should  be  useless  to  me.  If  that  was 
the  design,  it  succeeded. 

I  found  Simon  Wheeler  dozing  comfortably  by  the  barroom  stove  of  the 
dilapidated  tavern  in  the  decayed  mining  camp  of  Angels,  and  I  noticed  that  he 
was  fat  and  bald-headed,  and  had  an  expression  of  winning  gentleness  and  sim- 
plicity upon  his  tranquil  countenance.  He  roused  up  and  gave  me  good  day.  I 
told  him  a  friend  of  mine  had  commissioned  me  to  make  some  inquiries  about  a 
cherished  companion  of  his  boyhood,  named  Leonidas  W.  Smiley — Rev.  Leonidas 
W.  Smiley — a  young  minister  of  the  gospel,  who  he  had  heard  was  at  one  time 
a  resident  of  Angels  Camp.  I  added  that  if  Mr.  Wheeler  could  tell  me  anything 
about  this  Rev.  Leonidas  W.  Smiley,  I  would  feel  under  many  obligations  to  him. 

Simon  .Wheeler  backed  me  into  a  corner  and  blockaded  me  there  with  his 
chair,  and  then  sat  down  and  reeled  off  the  monotonous  narrative  which  follows 
this  paragraph.  He  never  smiled,  he  never  frowned,  he  never  changed  his  voice 
from  the  gentle-flowing  key  to  which  he  tuned  his  initial  sentence,  he  never 
betrayed  the  slightest  suspicion  of  enthusiasm;  but  all  through  the  interminable 
narrative  there  ran  a  vein  of  impressive  earnestness  and  sincerity  which  showed 
me  plainly  that,  so  far  from  his  imagining  that  there  was  anything  ridiculous  or 
funny  about  his  story,  he  regarded  it  as  a  really  important  matter,  and  admired 
its  two  heroes  as  men  of  transcendent  genius  in  finesse.  I  let  him  go  on  in  his 
own  way,  and  never  interrupted  him  once. 

"Rev.  Leonidas  W. — H'm,  Reverend  Le — well,  there  was  a  feller  here  once 
by  the  name  of  Jim  Smiley,  in  the  winter  of  '49,  or  maybe  it  was  the  spring  of 
'50 — I  don't  recollect  exactly,  somehow,  though  what  makes  me  think  it  was  one 
or  the  other,  is  because  I  remember  the  big  flume  warn't  finished  when  he  first 
come  to  the  camp ;  but,  anyway,  he  was  the  curiousest  man  about,  always  betting 
on  anything  that  turned  up  you  ever  see,  if  he  could  get  anybody  to  bet  on  the 
other  side;  and  if  he  couldn't,  he'd  change  side,s.  Anyway  that  suited  the  other 
side  would  suit  him — any  way,  just  so's  he  got  a  bet,  he  was  satisfied.  But  still 
he  was  lucky,  uncommon  lucky;  he  most  alway  come  out  winner.  He  was  always 
ready,  and  laying  for  a  chance;  there  couldn't  be  no  solit'ry  thing  mentioned  but 
that  feller'd  offer  to  bet  on  it,  and  take  ary  side  you  please,  as  I  was  just  telling 
you.  If  there  was  a  horse-race,  you'd  find  him  flush  or  you'd  find  him  busted 
at  the  end  of  it ;  if  there  was  a  dog-fight,  he'd  bet  on  it ;  if  there  was  a  cat-fight, 
he'd  bet  on  it ;  if  there  was  a  chicken  fight,  he'd  bet  on  it ;  why,  if  there  was  two 
birds  setting  on  a  fence,  he  would  bet  you  which  one  would  fly  first ;  or  if  there 
was  a  camp-meeting,  he  would  be  there  reg'lar  to  bet  on  Parson  Walker,  which  he 

(5) 


judged  to  be  the  best  exhorter  about  here;  and  so  he  was,  too,  and  a  good  man.  If 
he  even  see  a  straddle-bug  start  to  go  anywheres,  he.  would  bet  you  how  long  it 
would  take  him  to  get  to — to  wherever  he  was  going;  and  if  you  took  him  up,  he 
would  foller  that  straddle-bug  to  Mexico,  but  what  he  would  find  out  where  he 
was  bound  for,  and  how  long  he  was  on  the  road.  Lots  of  the  boys  here  has 
seen  that  Smiley,  and  can  tell  you  about  him.  Why,  it  never  made  no  difference 
to  him — he'd  bet  anything — the  dangdest  feller.  Parson  Walker's  wife  laid  very 
sick  once  for  a  good  while,  and  it  seemed  as  if  they  warn't  going  to  save  her ;  but 
one  morning  he  come  in,  and  Smiley  up  and  asked  him  how  she  was,  and  he  said 
she  was  consider'ble  better — thank  the  Lord  for  his  inf'nite  mercy ! — and  coming 
on  so  smart  that,  with  the  blessing  of  Prov'dence,  she'd  get  well  yet ;  and  Smiley, 
before  he  thought,  says,  'Well,  I'll  resk  two-and-a-half  she  don't,  anyway.' 

"Thish-yer  Smiley  had  a  mare — the  boys  called  her  the  fifteen-minute  nag, 
but  that  was  only  in  fun,  you  know,  because  of  course  she  was  faster  than  that — 
and  he  used  to  win  money  on  that  horse,  for  all  she  was  so  slow,  and  always  had 
the  asthma,  or  the  distemper,  or  the  consumption,  or  something  of  that  kind. 
They  used  to  give  her  two  or  three  hundred  yards'  start,  and  then  pass  her  under 
way;  but  always  at  the  fag-end  of  the  race  she'd  get  excited  and  desperate-like, 
and  come  cavorting  and  straddling  up,  and  scattering  her  legs  around  limber, 
sometimes  in  the  air,  and  sometimes  out  to  one  side  amongst  the  fences,  and 
kicking  up  m-o-r-e  dust  and  raising  m-o-r-e  racket  with  her  coughing  and  sneezing 
and  blowing  her  nose — and  always  fetch  up  at  the  stand  just  about  a  neck  ahead, 
as  near  as  you  could  cipher  it  down. 

"And  he  had  a  little  small,  bull-pup,  that  to  look  at  him  you'd  think  he  warn't 
worth  a  cent  but  to  set  around  and  look  onery,  and  lay  for  a  chance  to  steal 
something.  But  as  soon  as  money  was  up  on  him  he  was  a  different  dog;  his 
under- jaw'd  begin  to  stick  out  like  the  fo'castle  of  a  steamboat,  and  his  teeth 
would  uncover  and  shine  like  the  furnaces.  And  a  dog  might  tackle  him  and 
bullyrag  him,  and  bite  him,  and  throw  him  over  his  shoulder  two  or  three  times, 
and  Andrew  Jackson — which  was  the  name  of  the  pup — Andrew  Jackson  would 
never  let  on  but  what  he  was  satisfied,  and  hadn't  expected  nothing  else — and  the 
bets  being  doubled  and  doubled  on  the  other  side  all  the  time,  till  the  money  was 
all  up;  and  then  all  of  a  sudden  he  would  grab  the  other  dog  jest  by  the  j'int  of 
his  hind  leg  and  freeze  to  it — not  chaw,  you  understand,  but  only  just  grip  and 
hang  on  till  they  throwed  up  the  sponge,  if  it  was  a  year.  Smiley  always  come  out 
winner  on  that  pup,  till  he  harnessed  a  dog  once  that  didn't  have  no  hind  legs, 
because  they'd  been  sawed  off  in  a  circular  saw,  and  when  the  thing  had  gone 
along  far  enough,  and  the  money  was  all  up,  and  he'd  come  to  make  a  snatch  for 
his  pet  holt,  he  see  in  a  minute  how  he'd  been  imposed  upon,  and  how  the  other 
dog  had  him  in  the  door,  so  to  speak,  and  he  'peared  surprised,  and  then  he  looked 
sorter  discouraged-like,  and  didn't  try  no  more  to  win  the  fight,  and  so  he  got 
shucked  out  bad.  He  give  Smiley  a  look,  as  much  as  to  say  his  heart  was  broke, 
and  it  was  his  fault,  for  putting  up  a  dog  that  hadn't  no  hind  legs  for  him  to 
take  holt  of,  which  was  his  main  dependence  in  a  fight ;  and  then  he  limped  off  a 
piece  and  laid  down  and  died.  It  was  a  good  pup,  was  that  Andrew  Jackson,  and 
would  have  made  a  name  for  hisself  if  he'd  lived,  for  the  stuff  was  in  him  and  he 
had  genius — I  know  it,  because  he  hadn't  no  opportunities  to  speak  of,  and  it 
don't  stand  to  reason  that  a  dog  could  make  such  a  fight  as  he  could  under  them 

(6) 


circumstances  if  he  hadn't  no  talent.     It  always  makes  me  feel  sorry  when  I  think 
of  that  last  fight  of  his'n,  and  the  way  it  turned  out. 

"Well,  this-yer  Smiley  had  rat-tamers,  and  chicken  cocks,  and  tom-cats  and 
all  them  kind  of  things,  till  you  couldn't  rest,  and  you  couldn't  fetch  nothing  for 
him  to  bet  on  but  he'd  match  you.  He  ketched  a  frog  one  day,  and  took  him 
home,  and  said  he  cal'lated  to  educate  him ;  and  so  he  never  done  nothing  for 
three  months  but  set  in  his  back  yard  and  learn  that  frog  to  jump.  And  you  bet 
you  he  did  learn  him,  too.  He'd  give  him  a  little  punch  behind,  and  the  next 
minute  you'd  see  that  frog  whirling  in  the  air  like  a  doughnut — see  him  turn  one 
summerset,  or  maybe  a  couple,  if  he  got  a  good  start,  and  come  down  flat-footed 
and  all  right,  like  a  cat.  He  got  him  up  so  in  the  matter  of  ketching  flies,  and 
kep'  him  in  practice  so  constant,  that  he'd  nail  a  fly  every  time  as  fur  as  he  could 
see  him.  $miley  S3L\^  an  a  frOg  wanted  was  education,  and  he  could  do  'most 
anything — and  I  believe  him.  Why  I've  seen  him  set  Dan'l  Webster  down  here 
on  this  floor — Dan'l  Webster  was  the  name  of  the  frog — and  sing  out,  'Flies,  Dan'l, 
flies!'  and  quicker'n  you  could  wink  he'd  spring  straight  up  and  snake  a  fly  off'n 
the  counter  there,  and  flop  down  on  the  floor  ag'in  as  solid  as  a  gob  of  mud,  and 
fall  to  scratching  his  head  with  his  hind  foot  as  indifferent  as  if  he  hadn't  no  idea 
he'd  been  doin'  any  more'n  any  frog  might  do.  You  never  see  a  frog  so  modest 
and  straight  for'ard  as  he  was,  for  all  he  was  so  gifted.  And  when  it  come  to 
fair  and  square  jumping  on  a  dead  level,  he  could  get  over  more  ground  at  one 
straddle  than  any  animal  of  his  breed  you  ever  see.  Jumping  on  a  dead  level  was 
his  strong  suit,  you  understand;  and  when  it  come  to  that  Smiley  would  ante  up 
money  on  him  as  long  as  he  had  a  red.  Smiley  was  monstrous  proud  of  his  frog, 
and  well  he  might  be,  for  fellers  that  had  traveled  and  been  everywheres,  all  said 
he  laid  it  over  any  frog  that  ever  they  see. 

"Well,  Smiley  kep'  the  beast  in  a  little  lattice  box,  and  he  used  to  fetch  him 
down-town  sometimes  and  lay  for  a  bet.  One  day  a  feller— a  stranger  in  the 
camp,  he  was — come  acrost  him  with  his  box,  and  says : 

"  'What  might  it  be  that  you've  got  in  the  box  ?' 

"And  Smiley  says,  sorter  indifferent-like,  'It  might  be  a  parrot,  or  it  might 
be  a  canary,  maybe,  but  it  ain't — it's  just  only  a  frog.' 

"And  the  feller  took  it,  and  looked  at  it  careful,  and  turned  it  round  this  way 
way  and  that,  and  says,  'H'm — so  'tis.  .Well,  what's  he  good  for?' 

"  'Well,'  Smiley  says,  easy  and  careless,  'he's  good  enough  for  one  thing,  I 
should  judge— he  can  out  jump  any  frog  in  Calaveras  County.' 

"The  feller  took  the  box  again,  and  took  another  long,  particular  look,  and 
give  it  back  to  Smiley,  and  says,  very  deliberate,  'Well,'  he  says,  'I  don't  see  no 
p'ints  about  that  frog  that's  any  better'n  any  other  frog.' 

"  'Maybe  you  don't,'  Smiley  says.  'Maybe  you  understand  frogs,  and  maybe 
you  don't  understand  'em;  maybe  you've  had  experience,  and  maybe  you  ain't 
only  a  amature,  as  it  were.  Anyways,  I've  got  my  opinion,  and  I'll  resk  forty 
dollars  that  he  can  out  jump  any  frog  in  Calaveras  County.' 

"And  the  feller  studied  a  minute,  and  then  says,  kinder  sad  like,  'Well,  I'm 
only  a  stranger  here,  and  I  ain't  got  no  frog;  but  if  I  had  a  frog,  I'd  bet  you.' 

"And  then  Smiley  says,  'That's  all  right— that's  all  right— if  you'll  hold  my 
box  a  minute,  I'll  go  and  get  you  a  frog.'  And  so  the  feller  took  the  box,  and 
put  up  his  forty  dollars  along  with  Smiley's,  and  set  down  to  wait. 

(7) 


"So  he  set  there  a  good  while,  thinking  and  thinking  to  hisself,  and  then  he 
got  the  frog  out  and  prized  his  mouth  open,  and  took  a  teaspoon  and  rilled  him 
full  of  quail  shot — filled  him  pretty  near  up  to  his  chin — and  set  him  on  the  floor. 
Smiley  he  went  to  the  swamp  and  slopped  around  in  the  mud  for  a  long  time,  and 
finally  he  ketched  a  frog,  and  fetched  him  in,  and  give  him  to  this  feller,  and  says : 

"  'Now,  if  you're  ready,  set  him  alongside  of  Dan'l,  with  his  forepaws  just 
even  with  Dan'l's,  and  I'll  give  the  word.'  Then  he  says,  'One — two — three — git!' 
and  him  and  the  feller  touched  up  the  frogs  from  behind,  and  the  new  frog  hopped 
off  lively,  but  Dan'l  give  a  heave,  and  hysted  up  his  shoulders — so — like  a  French- 
man, but  it  warn't  no  use — he  couldn't  budge ;  he  was  planted  as  solid  as  a  church, 
and  he  couldn't  no  more  stir  than  if  he  was  anchored  out.  Smiley  was  a  good 
deal  surprised,  and  he  was  disgusted,  too,  but  he  didn't  have  no  idea  what  the 
matter  was,  of  course. 

"The  feller  took  the  money  and  started  away;  and  when  he  was  going  out 
at  the  door,  he  sorter  jerked  his  thumb  over  his  shoulder — so — at  Dan'l,  and  says 
again,  very  deliberate,  'Well,'  he  says,  'I  don't  see  no  p'ints  about  that  frog  that's 
better'n  any  other  frog.' 

"Smiley  he  stood  scratching  his  head  and  looking  down  at  Dan'l  a  long  time, 
and  at  last  he  says,  'I  do  wonder  what  in  the  nation  that  frog  throw'd  off  for — I 
wonder  if  there  ain't  something  the  matter  with  him — he  'pears  to  look  mighty 
baggy,  somehow.'  And  he  ketched  Dan'l  by  the  nap  of  the  neck,  and  hefted  him, 
and  says,  'Why,  blame  my  cats  if  he  don't  weigh  five  pound !'  and  turned  him 
upside  down,  and  he  belched  out  a  double  handful  of  shot.  And  then  he  see  how 
it  was,  and  he  was  the  maddest  man — he  set  the  frog  down  and  took  out  after  the 
feller,  but  he  never  ketched  him.  And — " 

[Here  Simon  Wheeler  heard  his  name  called  from  the  front  yard,  and  got  up 
to  see  what  was  wanted.]  Turning  to  me  as  he  moved  away,  he  said:  "Just  set 
where  you  are,  stranger,  and  rest  easy — I  ain't  going  to  be  gone  a  second." 

But,  by  your  leave,  I  did  not  think  that  a  continuation  of  the  history  of  the 
enterprising  vagabond  Jim  Smiley  would  be  likely  to  afford  me  much  information 
concerning  the  Rev.  Leonidas  W .  Smiley,  and  so  I  started  away. 

At  the  door  I  met  the  sociable  Wheeler  returning,  and  he  button-holed  me, 
and  re-commenced : 

"Well,  this-yer  Smiley  had  a  yaller,  one-eyed  cow  that  didn't  have  no  tail, 
only  jest  a  short  stump  like  a  bannanner,  and — " 

However,  lacking  both  time  and  inclination,  I  did  not  wait  to  hear  about  the 
afflicted  cow,  but  took  my  leave." 

********* 

After  the  reading  there  ensued  some  desultory  conversation  round  the  fire 
about  Mark  Twain  and  his  droll  humor,  and  how  he  and  Bret  Harte  ranged 
through  the  hills  and  mining  camps  in  the  immediate  neighborhood.  The  long, 
flat,  volcanic  level  of  Table  Mountain,  the  Big  Tree  Grove,  and  other  interesting 
natural  features  of  the  county  were  well  known  to  them.  Here  they  lived  and 
breathed  and  had  their  being  in  the  good  old  days  of  gold. 

Soon  the  group  thinned  out;  the  fire  died  down;  and  the  Calaveras  evening 
came  to  a  close. 

Fmis. 

(8) 


-82 


W.   W.   8HANHON. 


SAORAM1KTO !  V. 

SOTT.   BTAT8NHU1CTIKO. 
1010. 


